CRUISING FOR BAD BOYS, edited by MICKEY ERLACH, features the bonus novella, MY FATHER'S SEMEN by MYKOLA DEMENTIUK

CRUISING FOR BAD BOYS, edited by MICKEY ERLACH, features the bonus novella, MY FATHER'S SEMEN by MYKOLA DEMENTIUK, the disturbing story of a young man who seeks out his biological father only to be forced to survive the one way he knows how. This story will open your eyes to life on the streets of New York in the 1980s and will surprise you in the end.

Cruising for Bad Boys edited by Mickey Erlach

In his third STARbooks Press anthology, CRUISING FOR BAD BOYS, Mickey Erlach leaves the cozy confines of the bedroom to seek out sex in the riskiest of locales. Have you ever seen a man in a suit at a truck stop? A preppy frat boy in a public park after midnight? A nerdy man walking down the street in the wrong part of town? They aren't lost. They're looking for bad boys, and when they find them, the fun begins. The best part is when the suit and glasses come off, and the trick is no longer the wildest one in the room … or in the park.

CRUISING FOR BAD BOYS includes contributions from the hottest authors in world of erotica, including Amanda Young, Barry Lowe, Christopher Pierce, David C. Muller, David Holly, Derrick Della Giorgia, Jamie Freeman, Jay Starre, Martin Delacroix, Owen Keehnen, Rob Rosen, Ryan Field, Stephen Osborne, and Xan West.

excerpt:

Then I saw it: Mata Hari, Art Deco Antiques, my father’s shop. I stood and looked at it, biting my lower lip. He was cozy and warm sleeping snuggled into a warm bed upstairs never knowing his son was damp and cold on the street outside. I looked at the shuttered windows of the three story building and wondered which was his. The shop was enclosed by a gate but I could make out its smallness and antique decorated window display. A lamp with a colored-glass shade stood in one corner of the window, an old radio stood in the middle, and a tall elegant female mannequin dressed in a long gown and holding gloves stood at the other end.

I never understood what people saw in these old things; it would make sense if they had been alive when these objects were used, but some of them were fifty or hundred years old. In Mrs. Gillette’s house, one room was devoted to just such a display: a Biedermeyer sofa reclined next to a Tiffany lamp which stood atop a little table, which I’m sure had a name to it too. To me they looked like simple old couches, lamps and tables. I immediately hated my father’s shop. If Mrs. Gillette was a bitch because she possessed such expensive objects and always suspected everyone for trying to steal them, what was my father like for supplying those objects? Would he accuse me of robbing from him too?

I glanced at a handwritten sign in the doorway: Special Xmas hours: open Xmas eve 9 to 9, and underneath that a gold leaf etched sign in the glass:Mitch Lescoux, prop., and underneath that, Josh Rankling, asst. I frowned; my father was such a fake. Josh Rankling was the name, along with his, that appeared this year on his Christmas cards, but every year the name was a different one. I sneered in disgust. I wondered how much he had to dish out each year for a new gold sign to be etched in his window; he probably had more money than my grandmother suspected.

I crossed the street and looked up at the small building. It was nestled in between two tenements and looked very old compared to most of the other buildings on the street. That’s what my father would do, live in the oldest building there was. I wondered which room he and Josh slept in; no matter how many times I got picked up and went to bed I never ended up staying the night with some stranger. The idea of waking up next to some stubbled-faced asshole was always repulsive, and I always fled in the morning, disgusted and hating myself for having spent the night with a stranger. I know I always did it for money, being nothing but a whore, and afterwards it would be some time before I tried going with a guy again…yet I always did…

I turned away from my father’s building and felt as much as I did those Cincinnati mornings when I walked out of some stranger’s arms and bed: disgusted, hating myself, hating the world for what I had become: a male whore. Still, didn’t I resent the strangers name below my fathers? Did I want to lie underneath my father as well?

via STARbook Press 

My Father's Semen by Mykola Dementiuk , in Cruising for Bad Boys

As an added bonus, CRUISING FOR BAD BOYS, edited by MICKEY ERLACH, features the bonus novella, MY FATHER'S SEMEN by MYKOLA DEMENTIUK, the disturbing story of a young man who seeks out his biological father only to be forced to survive the one way he knows how. This story will open your eyes to life on the streets of New York in the 1980s and will surprise you in the end.

266 pages

***

My father lived in New York, ever since I was little, and I haven’t seen him six or seven years. Every Christmas I’d get a card from him with a check for a hundred dollars, I suppose it was his way of saying, Don’t bother me until next Christmas! My mom I never heard from; grandmother told me she was in San Francisco with her lesbian lover. Oh, I said, and shrugged. Grandmother knew a lot but didn’t say much.

The station was packed with people coming and going, but I had to take a non-descript seat and keep out of trouble. Wasn’t too long ago that I got picked up in the Greyhound men’s room, doing nothing, but the cops hauled me in anyway.

Cincinnati has no claim to fame, besides Steve McQueen in Cincinnati Kid which took place in New Orleans, and Loni Anderson in WKRP, a TV show meant more to show off Loni’s tits then her acting ability. And one time it was know as Porkapolis, before they changed the name to Cincinnati, in honor to some local Indian chief lord, hell, do you think people like to call their home a sty? Fuck off, Cincinnati, or should I say, Oink! Oink!

I only knew three things about New York: it was big, my father lived there, and whatever Joey told me about it. He had been there a year ago; having spent a week there, also running away from the therapy clinic his parents put him in because he was gay. His parents were rich enough to send a bounty hunter after him and he nabbed Joey right in the back of the NYC bus station, on his knees, and sucking cock in between two cars. Getting caught in the act was bad enough, but before he nabbed Joey the bounty hunter snapped a Polaroid of Joey sucking cock and which he used to blackmail Joey into giving him blow jobs all the way back home to Cincinnati, or else he’d give the photo’s to Joeys mom.

Which he did anyway; an envelope full of photos of Joey, kneeling before men, bent over to a standing man, sometimes sucking off one guy while jerking off two others…And of course Joey’s mom never asked why he hadn’t brought Joey home the first day he spotted him but took an entire week to amass twenty rolls of pornographic photos of her son or why there was a receipt among his bills for the Motel 6 outside of Cincinnati.

She paid him 25 thousand dollars to bring me home so he could fuck me right on her doorstep! Joey told me. No wonder he said it took him six weeks to track down Sheila (our friend) in Reno; he had her in a motel for a month, the bastard!

But my grandmother wasn’t as rich as Joey’s parents so I knew no bounty hunter or parent would come looking for me; but Ralph? Who knew how the social worker would rat me off to his respectable pig friends? Who knew what kind of all-points-bulletin would be issued on me? Warning! Child Molester on the loose! Beware of dreamy-eyes loners writing poetry! That’s him, he’s the one! So that’s why I was headed to New York, instead of Chicago, which I had tried three times before.

And since that night and day I sat on the Greyhound bus playing out my memories of Mrs. Gillette kissing me. I had never kissed a girl and Mrs. Gillette was the first woman I kissed and liked it. There were guys I had let kiss me, mostly faggot guys I’d meet and go off with them for some dollars, but with Mrs. Gillette I felt I wasn’t doing anything wrong, until the last moment, at least.

I had no idea where I was going to stay once I got there; I had already dished out $83.00 dollars from my father’s Christmas present and had about fifteen bucks to live on. But I wasn’t worried, I had seen all the movies, gazed in the books and magazines, and somehow knew I could survive on the streets of New York, or at least try doing it.

The bus station in New York is immense, and it’s called the Port Authority Building, it says so right in the front. And it stretches for three blocks, in the 40s from 8^th to 9^th avenues, and is, I guess, almost five stories high. You could probably fit all the people of Cincinnati inside and still have room for the nearby city of Paducah too.

When my friend Joey ran away to New York two years ago he told me that for the first two days he didn’t leave the building but survived on food that people threw away as they rushed to catch buses taking them out of town. But this time the cops were everywhere, and I’m sure that that even Joey, with all his smudged biker tattoos, would quickly be spotted as a loiterer and troublemaker.

There was even more people on the street outside entering the station. It’s as if everyone was leaving just as I arrived. But this was rush hour, and nothing like the morning or afternoon drives in Cincinnati. I pushed my way out of the station.

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